Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

DYLAN

I stand in front of the hardware store on this crisp autumn morning, taking note of the way the red stripes on the awning overhead are beginning to fade. There’s a subtle hint of dewy dampness in the air, as the leaves have only just begun to change colors. I loathe this time of year. Well, that’s not actually true. I love fall weather and fall drinks and sweaters and boots. But I’m afraid it will all be tainted now. Like I said, time is a funny thing.

“Good morning, Dylan!” Suzette, the owner of the flower shop next door, calls to me while unlocking her front door. It’s painted a pale yellow and surrounded by baskets of mums.

“Morning, Suz,” I say.

She’s giving me that look. It’s pity. There was a sharp cheerfulness in her greeting, but when I didn’t match her energy, her face immediately fell. And now, it’s just pity and watery eyes and not knowing what else to say.

I unlock the door to the hardware store, then walk inside and flip on the lights. Balancing my travel coffee mug in one hand, I reach for the mail piled on the floor. Dad kept the old-school slot in the door, unbothered by the idea that anyone would ever break into the store. For the record, no one ever did. That’s just not the sort of thing that happens around here.

I flip on the computer at the counter, letting it boot up while I flip on more lights around the store. The computer is ancient and takes a good several minutes to fully wake up. It’s another one of those things on the ever-growing list in my mind of updates and upgrades. But considering I don’t even know if I can keep this place open past the end of the month, there’s no use in upgrading anything.

The question is, how does a hardware store in the middle of nowhere innovate? How does it become popular or relevant or, at the very least, create new income? The answer? I have no fucking idea.

Truthfully, I’m okay if I never make it rich. I’m okay if I never make six figures. I’m a simple person with simple tastes. But hell, I need to be able to eat and maybe get myself a latte every once in a while.

My dad’s insurance policy was enough to cremate him, have a small service, and cover the past-due bills I found in a pile on his kitchen counter. That’s it. The store’s bank account barely has enough in it to pay the rent, utilities, and payroll for a month. Granted, payroll is now just me. I guess I could pay myself less, but that’s not really going to solve anything.

I rub my temples, sitting on the stool in front of the computer. It’s way too early for a damn headache. I pull out the top drawer and feel around for the bottle of Tylenol as my free hand clicks on the budget spreadsheet I created a while ago. Once I started helping out around here, I sort of took over the finances and bookkeeping entirely. Though, it’s sort of impossible to budget money that doesn’t exist.

“These things take care of themselves, Maggie.” That’s what my dad would say. But like, no, they don’t.

The bell on the front door dings and I look up, expecting to see Tim or Alan, regulars who drop in a couple of items a week. But it’s neither of them. In fact, it’s no one I’ve ever seen before.

And he’s really good-looking. I keep my eyes on him as he grabs a shopping basket and tucks it under the crook of his arm as he scans the shelves. His frame is every bit of six-foot-two, maybe taller, and his shoulders are broad, filling out his sage-green sweater quite nicely. His hair is a deep chestnut color, pushed to the side and a little disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it. Seems a bit early for stressed hair pulling, but who am I to judge? He pushes his black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and the act does something to me.

It’s sort of alarming how attractive I find him. Of course, it could be because he’s obviously new in town, and new is always intriguing. But no, it’s definitely not just that. He’s hot. And now he’s looking up from his basket and smiling at me. He’s walking toward the counter and staring straight into my soul. Oh god.

“Hello,” he says, a bright smile plastered across his face.

He places the basket on top of the counter to the left of me, where the register is.

“Hi,” I say, croaking out the word. “Did you, uh—did you find what you needed?”

“I think so,” he says, pulling items out of the basket. “These are okay to fix a loose baseboard with, right?”

I stare at the box of three-inch roofing nails in his hand, wondering if he’s messing with me. “Loose baseboards?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly.

“Yeah, the ones along my living room wall are pulled away from the wall,” he says, flipping the box toward him to look at them.

“Um, those are roofing nails,” I say. “For the roof.”

His expression falls, the smile fading away a little, replaced by a look of confusion.

“Oh,” he says. “Shit, I guess that’s not good.”

“They’re just a little large,” I say. “You want a much smaller nail.” I walk around the counter toward the section in the front, urging him to follow me.

Even though he’s walking behind me, I can smell his cologne. It’s clean and warm and a little intoxicating. Great. Is this smell just wafting all over the store now?

“Here,” I say, turning back to hand him the appropriate nails, only to find him standing much too close. I nearly bump into him.

“Oh,” he laughs. “Thanks.” There’s that smile again. That very broad grin with pearly white teeth peeking past very plump, kissable-looking lips.

Dear god, what am I thinking?

“No problem. Did you need anything else?”

“Um, maybe you can take a look at the other things I have to make sure I have the right stuff?” he asks.

“Given that you were about to drive three-inch roofing nails into your walls, maybe that’s a good idea,” I say with a laugh.

There are hints of dimples behind the smattering of stubble over his robust jawline. I can’t believe I just used the word robust. Have I ever in my life used that word? I try to think back, but nothing comes to mind.

When we get back to the counter, I scan the other items he’s placed there. “Are you working on something in particular?” I need to get a sense of what he’s doing before I can say with any confidence that he has what he needs.

“I inherited my uncle’s house,” he says, with a bit more pride in his voice. “But it’s been sitting for a while and is in need of some repairs.”

“Who’s your uncle?” I ask, unable to stop myself. It’s a small town, okay? I know pretty much everyone.

“Jerry Walker,” he says.

Ugh, Jerry. He passed away a couple of years ago. His house has just been sitting there, and I’ve always wondered what was going on with it.

“Your uncle used to come in here all the time,” I say. “I remember him well.”

“He did?” he asks, a different kind of smile across his face now. It’s the kind you get when you’re remembering fondly.

“Yeah,” I say. “He and my dad would talk about all sorts of things, and I’d just listen to their stories.”

“Is your dad here?” he asks. “I’d love to hear his stories about Uncle Jerry.”

The moment his words leave his mouth, I feel my face fall, my shoulders slumping. I know he doesn’t know. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it at all. But damn, that stings. And suddenly, I’m envisioning a string of identical moments where I have to say what I’m about to say. “He passed away last week.”

Now it’s the handsome stranger’s turn to shift uncomfortably.

“God, I am so sorry. I’m not from here and?—”

“It’s okay,” I say. “You couldn’t have known.”

There’s a moment of silence between us. It’s not quite as uncomfortable as I expect it to be. He has a very calm demeanor, so perhaps that helps.

“So you’re doing some repairs, huh? Getting it ready to sell?” I choose to change the subject, not wanting to dwell on my dad for too long.

“Uh, no, actually. I moved here. Like two days ago, to be exact.”

“Oh,” I say, genuinely surprised. Not many people move to Magnolia Ridge. Especially not people my age—or at least, I think he’s about my age.

“I know, it’s been a little crazy. I quit my corporate job to work for myself, and once the house was officially mine, I knew I wanted to move out of the city and embrace a quieter lifestyle.”

“Well, welcome,” I say. “Welcome to Magnolia Ridge.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is it you do?”

“I’m in marketing and business strategies.”

I nod, letting that sink in for a few seconds before a light bulb goes off.

“My name is Dylan,” I say. “Dylan McDowell.” I put my hand out between us as I introduce myself.

“Alex Walker,” he says, taking my small hand into his rather large one.

“Alex,” I say. “I’m going to determine based on the items in your basket that you aren’t too experienced with home repairs. Am I right?”

His expression turns sheepish, as he runs his hand over his jaw, scratching at his stubble. God, I hope he doesn’t shave it.

“I guess it’s not the most manly thing to have to admit.”

“Alex, I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman who owns a hardware store. I don’t exactly conform to stereotypical gender roles.”

He laughs. It’s a sweet sound, deep and a little raspy.

“Fair enough.”

“Alex, I’m wondering if we can help each other.”

“Color me intrigued, Dylan,” he says.

I ask him to meet me at Kitty’s Diner at five for dinner, wondering if perhaps the answer to my little predicament just walked in here and tried to buy super glue to fix his leaky faucet.

Bless his heart.